


Marie

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Babies, Domestic Polyamory, Eugene Lives, Gen, Kid Fic, Multi, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 11:59:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13166472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: The sound of the text hits him like electrocution, jolting him so fiercely he almost drops the phone in his fumbling to enter the password. Two words: “She’s here.”And then a second text, a picture. Eugene enlarges it and stares. Irene exhausted and sweaty, hair plastered to her forehead. In her arms a baby. Tiny, a little premature, red, wrinkled. No different from any other baby, surely too small to be the daughter who has been swelling Irene’s stomach for eight and a half months.Mechanically, he types, “Is that her?”





	Marie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [georgiehensley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/georgiehensley/gifts).



Eugene gets the text at two-fifty AM. He’s been sitting up in the living room forever by then, resisting the urge to get himself a shot of vodka for his nerves. He gave that up months ago when they heard the IVF took, when he realized he needed to get his life in order for real this time. But the wait is destroying him.

He doesn’t know all that much about the process of giving birth. Vincent and Irene went to a lot of classes on the subject, so Vincent would be able to help Irene and Irene would know what was coming. He only ever convinced them to tell them a little of what they learned through the argument that if the baby comes when the house is snowed in (it’s winter) and Vincent is out, Eugene will need to be the one to deliver it. But there’s hardly any snow on the ground, and Vincent and Irene got to the hospital in plenty of time, and they’ve been there for hours, and Eugene has been waiting.

The sound of the text hits him like electrocution, jolting him so fiercely he almost drops the phone in his fumbling to enter the password. Two words: _“She’s here.”_

And then a second text, a picture. Eugene enlarges it and stares. Irene exhausted and sweaty, hair plastered to her forehead. In her arms a baby. Tiny, a little premature, red, wrinkled. No different from any other baby, surely too small to be the daughter who has been swelling Irene’s stomach for eight and a half months.

Mechanically, he types, _“Is that her?”_

Of course it is. It’s a stupid thing to text. He erases the message and instead sends, _“Congratulations.”_

That’s also a little stupid. She’s his baby as much as theirs, and they could congratulate him as easily as he congratulates them. He sends it because there’s nothing better to say, really. He briefly considers drinking some vodka after all in celebration before discarding the idea.

He texts, _“When are you coming home?”_ He can’t visit them at the hospital. These days he doesn’t hide as thoroughly as in the past. He identifies himself as Eugene Freeman, a close friend of Vincent’s and a guest who pays rent at his home, and that’s enough to put off casual inquiries from visitors or people they run into at restaurants and parties. Hospitals, though, often check the identities of visitors genetically, or do blood tests if you seem overwhelmed or faint just to make sure there’s nothing wrong with you—it’s too much of a risk. And since the “accident”, he’s been so averse to them that he would hate to be in one anyhow.

_“They say we’ll see in the morning.”_

It is morning. Eugene sighs. “I’ll stay up.”

_“Go to bed, Eugene.”_

He goes to bed. Vincent comes home late in the morning and says they’re keeping Irene a while longer. He’s only stopping for a change of clothes and to update Eugene on the news. He hands Eugene a long receipt, their daughter’s genetic information. Eugene almost throws it out but, at a glance from Vincent, folds it up and puts it in a drawer instead. He won’t look at it yet, but it might be important someday.

Not that they can’t get the same information from a million different sources with only a strand of their daughter’s hair, but in a sense this receipt is almost as official as a birth certificate. It’s the first print-out of their daughter’s information. Her condemnation, were she Vincent’s biological child. Her vindication and golden ticket since she’s Eugene’s.

He and Vincent sigh over the receipt but go back to discussing Irene’s health (as good as can be expected) and what will occur next, when the baby may come home. Then Vincent hustles out to the hospital again with supplies and renewed vigor, and again Eugene is left alone.

A day and a half later Irene is released from the hospital. She carries the baby with her over the threshold and brings her down to see Eugene immediately despite her obvious fatigue. “Say hello to your Uncle Eugene,” she coos, already using the tone of a doting mother.

Uncle. Not father. Eugene agreed to this months ago when they first made the arrangements for the IVF. He’s the biological father but everyone needs to think that’s Vincent. Besides, relationships like his with Irene and Vincent aren’t illegal (it’s the least illegal secret they have these days) but they aren’t exactly accepted either, and it’s better to keep it on the down low.

Uncle. That’s a safer word.

“Hello, beautiful,” Eugene murmurs. He puts out his hands for the baby and Irene hands her over. He holds her very, very carefully, for just a minute before handing her back.

In the future he will try to never refer to her as daughter to her face. Niece, sometimes. Endearments, often. But usually he will just call her by her name, chosen months ago by the three of them: Marie.

* * *

 

Vincent knows better than Eugene or Irene how to change diapers. Apparently he used to work at a daycare briefly as a teenager—one of his low-paying jobs before he moved onto even more demeaning (but better paying) jobs like janitor work. Eugene doesn’t exactly relish the task but Marie is surprisingly cooperative on the table. She even gurgles and smiles when she’s powdered, grinning at whoever does the task. The diaper table is right next to a bookcase full of a mixture of Vincent’s favorite sci-fi novels and Irene’s favorite murder mysteries, and Marie waves at the brightly colored bindings. Eugene is tempted, whenever he changes her, to take out a book and hand it to her and let her rustle through the pages and probably rip it apart, but he resists the urge.

Not that they never give Marie books. Several weeks later Irene buys her some pretty books about animals made out of cardboard. They are not her favorite toys but she does like when people hold her in their lap and read aloud to her, probably more because of the funny voices and the attention than because of anything in the books.

For now, though, Marie is a simple baby. Her smiles are priceless—Eugene is desperate to earn them in an almost Pavlovian fashion—but most of the time she either sleeps or cries. Vincent gets very upset when she cries and Irene is wearied by it but Eugene, though often irritated, almost likes the chance to calm her. She quiets in his arms not as quickly as in Irene’s but faster than in Vincent’s, and he’s guiltily proud of it, proud of the fact that his little girl will cry for him to come to her, wants him, needs him.

Vincent does not get as much time with Marie as Eugene and Irene do overall, probably the reason Marie trusts him less (although she still likes him when he plays with her). His paternity leave at Gattaca is only a week. At Gattaca you’re supposed to love your children by providing for their futures, not by spending time with them.

And so, after that first week, Irene and Eugene are left to care for Marie without his help. Two people really ought to be enough—it’s more than many couples get with one needing to work, at the very least. Yet everything still seems so hectic and exhausting. Irene needs to sleep all the time, and they need to remember the proper times to feed the baby, and someone needs to keep the household in order, and Eugene needs to keep collecting his own genetic samples for Vincent, and someone needs to change the baby and keep her amused as much as possible. If they fail at some of these tasks Marie will cry; others will get them arrested. To Irene, Eugene can tell, the former seems worse than the latter.

Eugene likes that he spends so much time with Irene now, though. They spent a year alone together before Vincent came back from Titan, and during that year they were each other’s solace, during that year they fell in love. It’s not exactly that he’s doubted their bond lately, but Vincent’s presence tends to swallow other things up a bit, his enthusiasm, his vigor, and the fact that he knew both Eugene and Irene first. Vincent and Irene tend to have more sex, too—Eugene can’t get it up as easily, and sex with him can be a bit awkward, and the whole married couple thing turns Vincent and Irene on. So often Eugene feels that Vincent is really married to Irene and Irene is really married to Vincent (that much is true) and Eugene is just a house guest as they pretend to visitors and acquaintances.

Being around Irene constantly, he remembers that they love each other, and not just as members of the same household. He remembers old jokes that Vincent was never a part of, remembers a separate affection that Vincent does not swallow up. And taking care of Marie he feels more like a member of the team and less like a leech.

Oddly, he feels more attracted to Irene now too. On a purely physical level he catalogues the changes to her body, the weight added to her belly and sides and every place even now that she’s given birth, weight that will linger, and how her breasts have filled with milk. _“She bore my child,”_ he thinks to himself. Vincent’s too, he knows—Vincent’s in spirit, Vincent’s to the world. But also his, his seed, his daughter. He’s viscerally pleased by how it has marked her—he feels at once that he has a claim to her now and that he is indebted to her. These are thoughts he does not know how to convey to her. He tells her that he likes her new body, joins her and Vincent in bed a bit more often, touches her more when she has the energy for it. She will occasionally look at him with amusement when she sees him ogling, but otherwise she does not comment.

Not that they exclude Vincent. Vincent comes home in the evening and they have dinner ready for him. They tell him how the day has gone, what they have done, what Marie has done. He listens eagerly and responds with a long spiel of mathematical equations from his own workday that Irene understands far better than Eugene.

Irene’s maternity leave ends too soon as well. Five weeks for a mother, and Irene only gets that much because she has a decent position. Five weeks! She cries the night before she heads back to work, and Eugene and Vincent comfort her. After that she pumps her milk in the morning and during her break at work, and lavishes love on Marie whenever she is home.

For the rest, Eugene is left as sole parent. Again, they are luckier than many families. Most parents at Gattaca hire daycare or a nurse. Irene and Vincent have the money but they also have Eugene so it’s unnecessary. Though, after the first couple days, Eugene wonders if it’s too much work for him after all. He’s used to having little to do but collect his genetic samples and pay bills and pass time.

He’s not sure if he’s doing the best job at taking care of Marie—he plays with her and feeds her and changes her and makes sure she gets enough sleep, but it seems every day he does something wrong. Even so, it feels more right than any other job he’s ever done. _“It’s better than swimming,”_ he admits in the privacy of his own head, and feels guilty even to think it.

* * *

 

“Penny for your thoughts, Jerome?” Eugene asks.

It is early in the evening. Irene is already in bed, since it’s her night to take care of Marie and she wants sleep while she can get it, but Vincent sits in a rocking chair in the basement with Marie in his arms, fast asleep. He rocks back and forth, back and forth. It’s a new rocking chair, one Eugene impulse-bought in the rush of converting the house to be baby friendly. At the same time they bought two playpens (one for each floor of the house), a crib, a highchair, a diaper table…too many items to count, not to mention what they were given in the baby shower. But Eugene was the one to buy the rocking chair. He’s not sure why he wanted it—he never uses it since he can’t easily keep it rocking and hold Marie at the same time, and his own family’s furniture was always very stable and chic, nothing as kitschy as a rocking chair. But he bought it, and now mostly Vincent uses it, and it keeps Marie happy, so perhaps it was a decent choice.

Vincent looks up. His face is surprised at the inquiry—he must not have heard Eugene coming over—but his body is still so as not to wake Marie. He says quietly, “I’m not thinking about much.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s the usual.” Vincent sighs. He adjusts his grip on Marie. She is three months old and getting heavier.

Before Titan, the usual was space. These days, Eugene doesn’t really know what the usual is for Vincent. He’s never been able to fully understand him. He’s a straightforward man, which is what makes it so difficult. Irene and Eugene never quite say what they mean, and so they always understand each other’s silences and secrets. Vincent, on the other hand, is a straightforward mystery.

But if you ask him he’ll at least try to explain. “Tell me,” Eugene repeats.

“Well, I’m thinking about Marie,” Vincent says, glancing down at said baby. “About, you know. The future.”

“The future. Best not to think about that.”

“We have to now. You know we have to.”

Yes, having a baby means anticipating having a toddler, a child, a teenager, someday even a grown woman. Yes, Eugene has thought about it. It’s a good way to waste his time worrying.

Vincent voices his worries tonight. “We might not be the best parents, Eugene.”

Yes.

He worried about that before even giving Vincent and Irene a sample of his sperm for the IVF.

His parents were careful, very careful, about picking his genes. They chose a baby with the best of everything they had to offer. Eugene had only the tiniest chance of alcoholism and debilitating depression, and apart from that itsy-bitsy percentage of a chance he was basically the ubermensch. Look where that got him.

Vincent and Irene chose genes chaotically—they barely selected anything, telling the doctors they wanted whatever baby chance gave them, not even picking gender. Eugene doesn’t think Irene’s genes could do Marie any harm—one chance in a million of a heart condition, so what?—but he worries about his own. For him, alcoholism and depression somehow hit one hundred percent likelihood even with all odds in his favor. Can he offer Marie anything better than his own rock bottom?

Vincent says, “Someday she’s going to find out we’re criminals. We might even be arrested any day.” He rubs his forehead. “What kind of future are we giving her?”

Oh. That’s a…much more pressing concern, very typical of Vincent. Eugene refocuses. “If we’re arrested, we’ll have bigger…”

“We won’t have bigger worries. Are you stupid?” Vincent’s voice sinks into a hiss. “This,” he looks down at Marie, “is our biggest concern. That’s what we signed up for. She is what we live for now.” He glares at Eugene. “We can’t ruin her life through our own selfishness and stupidity.”

Eugene rolls his wheelchair back a foot, literally backpedaling. “All right, all right. You know I agree.” Mostly. He hates the idea of Vincent or Irene in prison. That by itself is the worst case scenario to him. But yes, he maybe spoke a little lightly. “What can we do about it? We can’t back out now.”

“Maybe we’ve doomed her.”

“Without this ruse, none of us would have met.” Eugene meets Vincent’s gaze and raises his eyebrows. “Marie was born of our crime. She will be better than any of us, but we are what she has.”

Vincent sighs.

It’s always hard getting through to that man.

* * *

 

At the age of seven months, Marie gives Eugene an unexpected gift.

She has been babbling for a while now, mimicking words, playing with sounds. When Irene makes animal noises she will try to imitate them, failing pretty badly. But she’s still expressive. She waves her arms excitedly as she speaks, pointing and gesturing as dramatically as a Shakespearean actor.

It’s a Saturday, and Eugene and Irene and Vincent are all home, all tired from the week, talking in the living room and playing with Marie in turn. Marie is in her playpen. In the midst of her babble she gestures wildly in their direction and screams, “UNNA!”

Vincent and Irene and Eugene all glance at each other.

“Unna.” She waves and points at them, fingers poking at the webbing of the playpen. “Unna. Unna!”

“She’s trying to say Mamma,” Vincent says. He’s been claiming she’s saying words for weeks, trying to get Eugene and Irene to bet on whether she will say “mamma” or “dada” first. “Can’t you tell? She’s calling for you.”

Irene shakes her head. “I don’t think so, Jerome.”

“Unna! Unna!”

Irene walks over nonetheless. She picks Marie up. “You want your mamma?” The same cooing tone she used on the day coming home from the hospital, now perfected.

But Marie won’t sit still in her arms. Leaning away from her she waves in the opposite direction and says, “Unna.”

Irene laughs. She walks over to Eugene and Vincent. “She wants one of you.” And Marie reaches down towards Eugene, who accepts her in his lap. She settles, complacently mumbling something with the word “unna” mixed in again a couple times.

“Unna. Uncle?” Vincent snorts. “So much for the betting pool.” The nonexistent betting pool.

Eugene scoffs. “It’s just one of her new words.” Privately he’s completely convinced Vincent is right. He pats Marie’s back and says, “All right, Unna is here.”

She grabs at the fabric of his shirt, curling little fingers around it. Soon she’ll probably start sucking on it if he doesn’t get her pacifier. Too bad, though—she doesn’t talk with the pacifier. It’s a word he’d like to hear again a few times, just to be sure.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt from trippsykes: "vincent, irene, & eugene are polyamorous and vincent & irene have a kid (or more) together, but with eugene's dna, of course. maybe the fic can explore what eugene feels his relationship is with the kid(s). (or, how he comes to except the role of being their second father.)"  
> I stayed pretty much in infant-hood with the kid fic element, but I felt like otherwise the scope would be too broad. These are Eugene's early feelings and experiences. I really loved writing about the concepts, so it was a great prompt!  
> (And although I like Vincent/Irene/Eugene it was the first time I actually wrote it so...how about that?)  
> Comments and kudos are welcome. I love feedback! Or come talk to me at convenientalias on tumblr.


End file.
